


Yours Truly

by Adequately



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Fluff, with a side dish of angst somewhere
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-17 19:10:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 16,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1399231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adequately/pseuds/Adequately
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere down the line the fun has to end. It always does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Provacative

He feels his ears heat up when she picks out the part when he calls her beautiful. He didn’t mean for it to come out, honestly – she decided to talk about sex in the first place – but he’s only half sorry that it did. She’s kind, brave, pushy when she needs to be and an excellent listener. She’s resilient, defiant and stubborn when required, and compassionate too. She is petite, battered, tired, and thin, but muscled, strong and quick. She possesses a grace born from survival, a voice both roaring and ghostly quiet, and a perspective that continues to teach him wonders.

Maker’s breath she is absolutely beautiful.

Of course he refrains from telling her he thinks of her as such. Well, refrain _ed_. Given her experience with human males on their journey thus far hasn’t inspired him to take any strides in _that_ particular direction. A working relationship was nice – friendship and partnership was perfect. No need to test her patience like almost every other human they encounter.

“I... did I say beautiful? Do you... have any particular opinion on my saying that?”

He waits for her to shift under his gaze uncomfortably, maybe laugh a little and say they should both get back to work.

“I might like hearing it. From you.”

 _Oh_. Well now.

“Then I’ll have to think of something more provocative next time, won’t I?”


	2. Thorny Scent

When he gives her the rose he can feel his breath hitch and his heart climbing its way up his throat.

But then she smiles and thanks him, tells him it’s very sweet of him. No jokes this time, no banter. It’s become something to lighten the mood given the task between the two of them, but this time it’s just quiet.

He really wants her to understand just how important she is, not just to him, but to everything. He near forced her to lead after a short stint of maybe five minutes of being a Grey Warden. Well, maybe two hours, give or take four. She may grumble about the oversized chainmail she wears on occasion, but not of the job she has undertaken, and she’s doing marvellously as a junior member who knows little to nothing of the Wardens.

When they press farther into the Brecilian Forest, he can see her back straightened just ever so slightly, the tiredness in her voice put aside until they leave.

He makes a mental note to remind her just how important she is to everything more often.


	3. Chasind Robes and Swaying Hips

Wynne catches him staring at her. Well, he wasn’t really staring, she was just in front of him in those Chasind Robes, with all that tight leather, those high – _so high_ – boots, and all that exposed flesh and he... well, he couldn’t help it. He wasn’t looking at her like _that_ , not really. He was looking at _her_. Well, that doesn’t sound any better.

It’s a wonder she can fight so well wearing less armor, but he distinctly remembers her tripping over her own boot in the human chainmail she was saddled with at Ostagar. She told him this was better – lighter, flexible, and she didn’t have a helmet impairing her vision. He had eyed her skeptically when she exited the Dalish tent (zero protection from an arrow coming from a blind spot, among other potential ambushes he'd mentioned), new attire on upon purchase, but she proved the practicality upon being attacked in the forest – next to him one minute with her blades, shooting darkspawn in the eyes the next and on a hill above him a few beats later, finishing off the rest.

She rolls her shoulders one by one as they make their way from the Dalish camp, back to their own for the night before leaving to their next destination. Without the excess of chainmail, he can see her body more clearly. She’s tiny, not just short, at least by human standards, maybe two sizes smaller than the average human woman. Still, she has a firm build, muscular and fit. He recalls having to look down and her looking up every time they’ve spoken – he always figured she was just shorter, not smaller, but he can see the distinction now. He sees scars on her arms, a few particularly large ones that look to extend to her back, the one part the robes truly cover. Eyes trailing farther down he can see a few more on her legs, some new, most old. He wonders where she got them, and he hates to ponder it but her being an elf – and a self-proclaimed sneak-thief at that – he can almost imagine. He doesn’t want to.

Wynne calls him out again. He trips – figuratively – and his foot is in his mouth.

When she stops teasing him, he can’t _not_ stare at her swaying hips. He clears his throat and takes a few larger strides, landing next to her to avoid her backside. Planning on discussing business as usual (“What’s our next destination?”) he looks down to meet her gaze and is greeted by the ridiculously low cut of the front of those damned Chasind Robes, and her chest, once again a few clicks smaller than the average human woman, but still quite... _ahem_.

“Something on your mind?” she asks, either completely oblivious or supremely devious.

This was going to be a long walk back to camp.


	4. Testing, 1, 2, 3.

She’ll need more testing, she says.

He thought it was too soon. He thought that she thought that _this_ , this thing between them, didn’t run so deep for her as it did for him. He sees the way Zevran looks at her (and every other person at camp, himself included), and the way she just laughs him off but doesn’t create a fine line for him to stand behind. He notices how when most of the time she approaches him it’s business first, mild flirtations later. He wonders – he doubts. She jokes, and he jokes back, usually the reverse, but he’s unsure of how to read this thing between them.

He tries not to think too much about it. He might be getting ahead of himself. Maybe he should slow down like her, take it a day at a time – there is a Blight to deal with.

But when their lips part and he backs away, says he’ll have to work on that, she looks at him, dead in the eyes. It’s not intense, but warm. She laughs a bit, soft and quiet, her lips curved in a fond little smile. She stands up on the balls of her feet, pulls him forward by his armor ever so slightly into one long, tender kiss.

She only breaks because she can’t maintain the height required to keep their lips locked any longer. Her fingers brush across his slightly as she walks past him, telling him in a soft little whisper that she better go plan their next move, and bids him goodnight.

Somehow things feel more certain.


	5. Body Language

Wynne says something that changes her posture. She’s uncomfortable, probably a little upset as far as he can tell, given that her back is to him during this conversation and he’s not actually part of it. Or is he...?

When it looks like they’re done, she looks at him from over her shoulder, eyes troubled, brows a little furrowed. She turns away and he can see her inhale, big and sharp, then gets back to work, providing runes and other materials to their allies, talking to Bodahn and his son.

She only smiles at him when she catches him watching her, which is about seven times that evening. He raises a brow, thinks it’s a clear enough indication that he knows something’s wrong and she can come to him about it, always. She responds with an apologetic look and a feeble little shrug, which says she’s busy.

When Wynne and the rest of the party retire for the evening he sets up for first watch with Fluffy, her affectionately named mabari companion. She suddenly calls Alistair's name and runs up to him, jumps into his arms. He wraps his arms around her legs to elevate and secure her in place and she kisses him, desperate, hard, longing with an intensity that is almost defiant, like she’s compensating for ignoring him earlier because something made her.

He doesn’t know what the older woman said, but what her body language says now is all that matters: nothing’s changing. This – _them_ – is for certain. It’s a thing.


	6. Wedding Ring

He doesn’t bring it up, but he notices that she stops wearing her ring after a time.

They’re sitting at the fire, maps, treaties, weapons, armor, and other assorted possessions laid out before them on the ground and stump, and he spots it – rusted and coated in old and new blood.

She’s sorting through herbs and other lost things she picked up along the road to barter with for extra money, talking aloud about what goes to whom and where they might pick up more, then the treaties, then something about Orzammar likely being the next stop, then something about that control rod, something else about the Dalish, the Redcliffe soldiers not far off who might need some extra supplies while on watch, but then she stops. He looks up, and she’s watching him, a curious glint in his eyes as he glances back at the ring, and a wary one in hers.

She looks at him evenly, though he can tell there is much effort put into meeting his eyes and says, “I’ll tell you about it. One day.”

“You don’t have to,” he tells her, and adds a light and casual shrug. It’s really not a big deal, he wants to say, but there’s certainly a weighty story behind it. He remembers when they first met back at Ostagar – she came up to him and the mage in some battered old clothes with fancy embroidery, covered in dried blood wearing the ring. As she waited to speak to him, she twisted it around her finger anxiously, the band a little too large for any of her fingers. “I know there are some things you’d rather not–“

“I want to,” she assures him. They both stare at the ring for a moment, and then he nods in silence.

One day, then.


	7. Stolen Gift

He doesn’t really understand how she manages to remember almost everything he’s said to her – fine cheeses, a mild obsession with his hair, Duncan and the memorial, dancing in a dress (but only if it’s pretty)... his mother’s amulet and Arl Eamon.

She shrugs off his bewilderment and cites life as a sneak-thief – details, she had said. Something about always paying attention to the details to pick something apart. He makes a crack about her wanting to pick him apart, or at least his armor. All she does is shrug one shoulder and hums in contemplation – it’s not a yes, but it’s certainly not a no.

“Didn’t you say something about skipping straight to the steamy bits a while back?”

“Yes, but you called that bluff.”

“Right, but then why would you bring up licking a lamp post in winter unless you wanted me to...?”

He chokes on his food. She starts laughing. Once her rumbling little fit stops, she places a hand on his shoulder. “I think you should talk to Arl Eamon when you get the chance.”


	8. Family

Goldanna was not what he expected. She wasn’t what either of them expected, based on her expression and bewilderment next to him during the whole exchange.

He babbles when they’re outside. He feels foolish, stupid for thinking that she’d just accept him with open arms; a stupid, naive idea.

He doesn’t quite know what he’s saying but she tells him, voice firm, “I care about you.”

And despite their audience, public location, and her only a few strides away from home and a gate in her face to prevent her from getting farther, she stands on her toes and kisses him, soft, reassuring, and warm.

He has her.


	9. Casteless

He’s not entirely sure that Bhelen was the right choice – he had one brother killed and framed the other to get within reach of the throne. Despite helping Harrowmont out the duration of their time in Orzammar, she changed her mind last minute.

He wants to ask her why, even though she had asked for his opinion and was at her wits’ end with Dwarven politics. He didn’t give much of an answer, not one for thrones and royalty himself. She refrained from asking him again as the mere idea of thrones and in-fighting drove him mad.

She revisits Dust Town before they leave, gives a bit more money to the casteless while she’s there. He watches as she takes a woman’s hand and puts a few extra silvers in, curls the casteless dwarf’s fingers around them, and then firmly places her own elf hand on top. They exchange smiles – the dwarf woman pulls her into a hug. She returns it, and wishes her good fortune in the future, as she thinks times will change, if a little slowly.

She returns to his side and sighs, “It’s almost like being in another Alienage. Worse.”


	10. Invitation

Everyone’s tired. Boots are dragging, eyes are drooping, but enough energy is maintained to set up camp under the stars and sky. Being in the Deep Roads drove him crazy. The air felt thin, the scent of blood loomed about, and the ceiling looked as though it contemplated collapse every time he looked at it, as if to tease him. There were darkspawn everywhere – his senses, and he imagines hers as well, were out of sorts and overwhelmed.

She’s talking to Oghren, pressing a few questions and getting to know their newest companion despite her occasional yawn, as is some strange tradition she’s upheld since collecting more people along the way. It’s rather impressive actually, seeing her having an actual conversation with Sten. He thinks he actually likes her.

When Oghren shoos her off to get some sleep, she walks right into him. Laughing slightly at the impact and greeting him, she asks him if he needs something. He doesn’t know how to say this – well, he knows how to open his mouth and make sounds that resemble words, but which to choose?

“... I feel like my head’s about to explode.”

Oh, so smooth. Something else about being driven crazy – he can’t quite hear himself speak with the nervous pounding in his ears, but he does catch her expressions: tired, mildly confused, amused, charmed, touched, concerned.

Wait, concerned?

“Even though I’m not human like you?”

His heart nearly gives up. How does he even – where to even begin?

He loves the way her hands fit into his. He loves that he has to bend down a bit to be at eye level with her. He loves that she has to stand up on her toes just to reach him, and can sneak around him with ease and knock him over, which she has. He loves that she takes nothing for granted. He loves that despite her size she is a force of nature by herself. He loves that in the eyes of humans twice her size she stares them down and they relent. He loves that her words alone tear down or compel others. He loves that she puts countless people before herself and makes time to tend to their needs and make sure they’re ok. He loves that she takes the time out of every one of her evenings to speak to every companion of theirs, to make sure they’re all doing fine. He loves that she saves him for last because she knows they’re going to talk about something ridiculous or entirely serious into the night. He loves that she, an inexperienced Warden, could gather an army against the darkspawn and still have time for him, and her mabari friend.

But he doesn’t voice these particular facts. Instead he laughs – how could he possibly say all this without tripping over his own words and making her laugh, another thing he loves: her laugh, and all its variations.

“Especially because of that.”

She bites her lip, suppressing a smile, another thing he is quite fond of, takes his hand and leads him to her tent.


	11. Awkward Firsts

He didn’t think this entirely through, though she didn’t either, admittedly. The tent is small, small enough for her, big enough for the two of them to sit but not enough to stand all that well.

He’s wearing massive armor, and they’re kissing and tripping over things in the dark and she’s giggling and he’s blushing and trying to bite his lip to suppress his laughter and kiss her back without waking the others. Both of them shush Fluffy when he barks once. Then they start snickering in unison, lips crashing into one another, hands grabbing in the dark for something to maintain balance, or just each other.

She yanks off his gloves and bends down slightly to place them on the ground without making a sound. He’s grateful she’s a rogue. His hands, now bare, find their way on what he thinks is her waist and for the first time he can truly feel her.

From his memory, her curves and the small candle she managed to light without his knowledge, he can make out her thigh (well he wasn’t that far off) – scars and worn leather, likely her boots.

She’s making quick work of his armor – bless those deft hands – and he is careful to not tear her clothes off with every piece she discards. She is not so subtle, fingers tripping once in a while at the harnesses of his armor and her kisses hot and aggressive. She wants this.

His armor comes off, piece by piece in a consistent pace; she works faster than he, and he makes a mental note to ask her to help him back into it in the morning as it would save everyone a lot of time. He is reduced to his pants and shirt, and not complaining. She presses herself against him for one deeply satisfied kiss, pleased with her handiwork of stripping him down.

It feels different – he had always had a breastplate between them. He could feel the material of their clothes between them instead – her leather is rough, coated with the smell of sweat, blood and a touch of mud, the thin material of his shirt... it’s strange without some armor in between, but certainly not in a bad way.

She pulls him down, and they’re on their knees. He discards her belt, collar, and fur-whatever, and then makes work of her boots, one by one, sitting her down. She inhales at his touch, nearly a gasp at this new feeling – he’s slower than she is in the removal of garments, though maybe it was to get them both to fit in the tent that prompted her to work faster. Or perhaps it’s just her efficiency.

He spots a new scar, long and extending to her knee, and before he can rationalize, he kisses it. Lips not moving, he glances up at her for something of approval, and she’s smiling, charmed. He pulls the leather down further, and catches wind of more; where she got them all he’ll need to coax out of her the next time. He continues this slow work, a kiss per every inch he advances, and not long after she is wearing one thing less. He does the same of the other boot, a kiss for an inch, and she sighs with content, his tenderness pleasing.

Once he’s finished he comes back up to steal a kiss, and her deft little hands are at his waist, sneaking up his shirt. He smiles against her lips and obliges, removing the article himself. Her cheeks flush at the sight of his body – toned and muscular. They’ve already established that this was the first time for both of them, so he assumes he’s the first man she’s ever seen, and blushes himself under her gaze. She runs a few careful fingers across his chest and down, her touch ghostly and lingering not too long, probably out of habit. She observes his own collection of scars, one in particular on his shoulder and just as he, she kisses it gently, though it sends a chill of pleasure up his spine. She moves her lips, as ghostly and careful as her hands, across his collarbone and up his neck, then chin. He shivers. She meets his lips with hers.

His hands trail up their place on her legs to her torso, graze across and his fingers linger under her breasts. He pauses and hesitates, breaks their kisses and rests his forehead against hers. She takes his hands and guides them up to her shoulders, loops his fingers under the fabric and when she releases his hands he pulls down.

He’s... never seen a woman naked before, or half. He’s not sure if he’s gawking. He probably is, oh Maker...

She giggles, this is odd for both of them but she finds it strangely amusing and he’s only mildly offended when she guides his hands once more straight to her chest, prompts him to squeeze and _oh_.

Her sneaky hands frame his face and she strokes her thumbs against his cheeks gingerly, one hand moving to cradle his head. With silent guidance she lays him down, his pants thrown aside and the rest of her robes elsewhere. Somewhere between her intoxicating kisses and his hands searching and discovering marks along her body, she removed the remainder of both their clothes, and before long, she’s on top of him.

He’s probably sweating. He’s likely shaking. This is so strange, so new – to feel her differently, this intimacy with literally nothing between them. He’s thinking about it, the first time, for him, for her, and he knows he shouldn’t but she’s all hot and warm on top of him and he is entirely hard under her and she bends down to kiss him, soft and tender as usual, his face framed by her hands. He settles a bit, the flash of uncertainty mixed with panic and other frantic confusions diverted. She smiles against his lips, and he exhales. Were this anyone else he... well he wouldn’t know. He doesn’t want to think much of it.

They’re kissing again, dancing between brief to longer play, her tongue sneaking into his mouth that he has to wonder how she knows how to do this, or if everything is like a lock to pick for her. He feels her rise, and she comes down on him. Both their breaths hitch slightly, and she takes the initiative again and rocks. A moan escapes his lips, and she bits her lip to avoid the same with limited success; the others aren’t far off and they’re tired or trying to sleep. She is nothing if not efficient and aware. Well, trying to be as best she can.

He watches her with half open eyes. Her pace stumbles briefly until she settles on something that garners a combination of a whimper, gasp and wholly content sigh from him. Their lips crash in incomplete kisses, and his hand, to avoid digging into her scarred flesh, is tangled up in her hair. Riding him out for he doesn’t know how long he reaches his limit, and her release follows soon after.

He falls back, her warm body still on top of him. He watches her curiously as she returns his gaze, their breathing trying to find their bearings once more. Her eyes are analyzing, revaluating what has just occurred to piece together some sort of plan to best please him no doubt. He can see it.

As their breathing evens out, he lifts her chin and brings her forward for a kiss, slowly moving her from her place atop him to his side, then seating himself before her.

“My turn to figure this out,” he says in a low voice, but mostly to himself. It’s honest, so painfully honest, that she bites her lip and smiles. They’re not Zevran, shameless flirt and love maker extraordinaire, but they’ll figure each other out.

He kisses her first; those are quite possibly the simplest, so he can’t go wrong there. His hands consciously search her body, one caressing the leg she wraps around him. He dips her back, supporting her with his free arm as he trails kisses down her neck, reminiscent of what she’d done earlier to him in the opposite direction.

 _Thinking too much_ , he tells himself.

Without thought, he pauses between her breasts. Awkward in any other given situation, but when his tongue around her nipple rewards him with an incoherent murmur of pleasure, he feels he’s on the right track.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T'was an awkward first for me as well, hahaha.


	12. The Morning After

It’s the first night he’s ever slept peacefully in some time. He doesn’t quite believe it, really, and thinks it was all a very vivid dream up until he finds her curled up against him, and the memory of night before and the events that transpired – so awkward and unknown and unusually perfect – return. He nearly relaxes until he hears Leliana humming maybe a few feet away outside, Wynne likely close by preparing food. Zevran greets them, a yawn and something he doesn’t quite catch... Morrigan, Oghren, Shale and, well... that silence in the air is probably Sten. Probably.

She shifts next to him, still sound asleep, likely still worn from the amount of politics Grey Wardens weren’t supposed to deal with in Orzammar, but alas. He hears Wynne calling the war dog from his place outside her tent, and Morrigan asking something along the lines of where the Wardens are as they are typically up first, already plotting their next destination. “’Tis most unusual.”

Leliana offers to fetch them both and approaches her tent first. It’s when she calls out to the elf next to him that Alistair realizes that he’s not in his own tent.

The Orlesian bard calls out once more before poking her head in, a comment about Dwarven politics being too much for one to handle left unfinished when she finds Alistair inside. Her eyebrows rise slightly, and her eyes scan the space for their leader, who is slowly coming to.

“A few more minutes, perhaps?” Leliana smirks.

“Please and thank you...?” he offers, never one to leave a conversation.  The elf in question is awake now, bits her lip and nods. When their bard friend leaves them to it, they burst into laughter. “I think we need to get up.”

She protests, and kisses his shoulder, something she came to learn he quite liked the previous night, sending chills down his spine, “You heard her: a few more minutes.”

Well, who is he to object?


	13. Business as Usual

Anora happens. His fellow Warden and is none too pleased with the queen.

Everything after that night was a blur of pure happiness, he thinks. Wynne teased him relentlessly, Zevran stuck his nose in, Leliana was just as cruel as the elder mage, and Morrigan couldn’t stand the sight of the two of them stealing glances every few minutes. Everything was perfect, Blight aside. It may have only lasted a week, or maybe months. He couldn’t tell. It was just perfect.

But likewise, Eamon also happens. Alistair now has to become king. He is none too pleased either. He starts to think that he was never destined to live contently.

After she (angrily) led their storm out of Fort Drakon – all the while cursing the queen for lacking the spine to command her subjects to stand down and let her pass and sitting under the thumb of her lunatic father – ” _fantastic_ leader,” she had said with excess sarcasm and then some – they arrived at Eamon’s estate. She didn’t outright attack the queen, and proceeded to discuss some matters with Eamon.

Alistair hears her entertaining the ideal of a marriage between Anora and himself. He’s horrified at the notion, but has to admit that it makes sense: a good compromise. He tries not to think about making the smart choices over the good ones, or even the morally right ones. He wonders when exactly she picked this up, making those choices with a straight face and a stone heart. He knows she stirs at night, and sometimes murmurs when they’re both not dreaming of darkspawn. If he becomes king, he’d have to do the same.

But then Eamon tells her he sees the way Alistair looks at her and she falters for a moment, falls silent for a split second. He’s proud that he can spot these rare moments, and also troubled by them – if _she’s_ troubled, there’s something definitely wrong. She presses onto the unrest in the Alienage instead.


	14. Meet the Family

He finds out that she was betrothed. It provides a small frame of information on the ring she always carries with her, but not by much.

He presses the issue lightly, because he trusts her. She wouldn’t be the type to go around while married, right...?

 _No_ , of course not.

She responds in a manner he respects, because he would do the same – with a joke. Rapists, the wrong cake, a total bloody disaster. Her voice is even and unwavering with a very mild touch of humour, but he can tell it’s not something she’s comfortable talking about, and neither is her cousin. He drops the subject.

They find out her kin are being sold into slavery. She’s so furious he doesn’t think she’s thinking anymore. She listens to the mage’s offer with patience and a thin smile. Zevran snaps at her. Wynne cautions. He himself tells her that this feels wrong, but it’s not his people, and not his call to make. He trusts her, but would she...?

She drops her counter-offer, and then puts an arrow in one of the man’s eyes, hops over the railing they stand behind and proceeds to make it a bloodbath. He’s never seen her so angry before. She’s seething. The rest of them quickly join the fight.

Everyone who isn’t in a cage or on their side is dead not long after.

Wynne eyes him before she returns to watching their leader with her usual grandmotherly concern. Zevran is helping pick the cage locks open. She rummages about the mage’s body for all that he offered, and tosses his sovereigns to her fleeing neighbours. Subsequently afterward she frees her father and he tells her to meet him at their home. She complies with a curt nod.

She dismisses the rest of them and goes alone, not returning to the estate until a great deal later.


	15. Story Time

After they’ve eaten, she pulls him aside, lifts his hand and gently drops her wedding ring into it.

“I said I’d tell you one day,” escapes her lips – raspy, low, but most notably, tired. He nods and they leave the estate, taking to the streets of Denerim together.

His name was Nelaros, and he was from Highever. He had sandy blond hair maybe a few shades lighter than his own, and fair skin. He had strong features – full lips, a tall nose, a perfect set of teeth, defined jaw line, finished with bright, optimistic, and kind eyes. In a word, he was handsome. She tells him he was warming, based on their five minute conversation, and rather brave, trying to protect her.

“From what?” he asks.

“I’m getting there,” she muses. Her little chuckle is short lived, and she returns to this sort of exhausted and strained voice.

Vaughan Kendells showed up drunk, and with a few friends. He harassed some women and Shianni – “bless my cousin” she said – brought a bottle to his head, knocking the sap out. Duncan arrived shortly after the exit of the other humans, and she pressed him for some questions.

“I near begged him to tell me everything about anything, just to put off the wedding,” she sighs, a smile on her lips. “And for a while, he did. I think Soris gave him a look to tell him to stop.”

During the ceremony Vaughan came back to take the women. Nelaros made some attempt to keep her from getting taken, but to no effect. She was knocked out cold, and when she awoke she was with the others in the arl’s home. One of them was killed on the spot, and the others were dragged off. She had two guards to keep her from causing much of any trouble.

Soris then showed up with a sword from Duncan.

“I went on a rampage through the arl’s home. I couldn’t tell you how many people I killed if I wanted... ten, a hundred. It felt... it didn’t feel real. I just kept going and going.”

Nelaros is killed before they reach Vaughan. She pocketed the ring from his still warm corpse alongside any other useful items. When they reached Vaughan, he offered her a deal.

“I heard him out. Not as much as a Tevinter slaver, mind you,” she scoffs, bitter. He watches her as she ponders her words, glances at him, and then looks forward. “I listen to their offers to get their hopes up. It’s what they do to us – toy with us a bit – so it only seems fair.”

 _Ah_.

She made a point to cut Vaughan’s head off first, but he already had his way with Shianni. They left, and just as soon as they returned to the Alienage, guards came for the murderers. She took the whole blame; Soris doesn’t deserve to go down like that, she tells him.

Before she can be apprehended, Duncan steps in and invokes the Right.

“I was so... I don’t know,” she murmurs, “He saved my life, and I got to leave. I got to _live_ because of him. He was so unlike any human I’d ever met. I might not have known him as long as you did, but I miss him. I owe him everything. I owe Nelaros, and everyone who died in the purge because I killed the arl’s son, too. I owe a lot of people.”

They don't say anything after. Instead, he takes her hand and they walk back to the estate. He wants to say something, tell her it wasn't a beautiful story but rather a brave one, that he's glad she fought with every bit of her being to save those close to her, and that he was glad Duncan was there too, but he doesn't. Her brows are knitted together as she watches her feet.

_"I owe a lot of people."_

Her story lacked finality.


	16. Kitchen Gossip

He runs into her in the kitchen, fixing herself a snack at the late hours.

“You too?” he chuckles, and plants a kiss on her cheek before sitting down himself. Her mouth is full, but she nods with enthusiasm, or maybe just excess hunger, stuffing her face some more. He notices her watching him carefully. “What?”

“What do you think about Anora?” she asks after a grand swallow of... chicken, he thinks.

“I think she’s a great queen.”

She raises a brow, and hands him some cheese and bread. Obviously he hadn’t spoken to Anora himself. Something was off.

She nods, mowing over his response in her mind no doubt. After a moment, she says in an off-hand manner, “Would you marry her?”

He chokes on the bread and gapes at her.

“Just a question,” she responds with more level-headedness than he’d like, “and an option.”

He doesn’t know what to say. He takes her cup, and takes a large gulp.

For whatever reason, she tells him she intends to make him king. He isn’t sure it’s a good idea – he doesn’t even want it to start with. He thinks Anora is a great queen, and is welcomed to the throne should she wish to keep it, but Eamon – and her too, apparently – do not want that. He asks her why.

“I don’t trust her,” she states with great ease. He presses for a more in depth answer. She eyes him, and shakes her head, “She handled things at the arl’s with such finesse, if you remember. She needs our protection from her father, yet refuses to openly stand against him, or Cauthrien, in that instance. She’s watching us.”

“We _are_ planning on taking everything away from her.”

“True, which gives her all the more reason to betray us and go back to Loghain,” she says pointedly. She has him there. “I think you’ll make a great king.”

He raises a very doubtful brow.

“You would care about the people in your country,“ she says, gets up from her seat, and heads for the door, “She won’t be the one to run up to a genlock and kill it, she’ll get someone to do it for her. She wants to stay where she is – she’s in this for herself. People are always out for themselves. You should know that by now.”

“So you don’t have anything personal against her,” he shoots back for that low blow, obviously referring to Goldanna. He’s offended she would even go there, given the heart to heart they just had earlier with her own story.

“You mean despite the fact that for all the time she’s supposedly ruled for Cailan, nothing has been done to make life for my people any less difficult? Perish the thought,” she quips, challenging him, “She may be the smart choice, but she isn’t the right one. You have a kind heart and a strong sense of justice. The right choice is never the easy one. We all make sacrifices to do so. Can you say the same of Anora?”

He doesn’t say anything. He has his doubts, and that alone says enough.

“Point taken.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish there was an option to slightly harden Alistair later, especially around the Landsmeet, which would lead to him being a stronger ruler in the long run.


	17. Landsmeet

He’s somewhat in awe at how efficient she is at the Landsmeet. The odd elf in the room, her words are short and curt, but sharp and cut deep, dancing around Loghain as he spits at her and the Wardens, prattling on about Orlais. Interestingly, however, she does not bring up the Tevinter slavers, but given the amount of resentment, shock, and belittlement he can see in several eyes, he knows – they don’t give a damn.

She does, but it matters little.

Anora steps in at her father’s mention, and as per the elf’s words, she does as she predicted.

She sides with him, throws accusation after accusation at them, and when Alistair glances at his fellow Warden, he can see the smugness plastered across her face. It says _I told you so_.

“This Warden has slandered and defamed Ferelden’s greatest hero in a bid to put an imposter on Maric’s throne.”

Despite Denerim’s favourite’s words, the Wardens win the Landsmeet. Her smugness increases a great deal up until Loghain becomes hostile. She steps in to fight him herself.

It doesn’t last long – Loghain is strong, fast, and skilled but she is nimble, clever, has a few dirty tricks up her sleeve and years of dodging authority figures under her belt just to get by, as she told him once before. _Comes in handy_ , she had said. Plus the bonus pressure of having to win _or else_ , and lo and behold: she is victorious.

He yields, and he can see her pause – the right thing to do would be to accept. She doesn’t, however.

“You’ll die for what you’ve done.”

And he knows she’s not just referring to Ostagar. This is personal – more personal than losing Duncan and the other Wardens, her future mentors and brothers in arms; her new family, as it were. More than the king and countless lives abandoned, without a chance to even retreat. When Vaughan raped her cousin, she killed him for what he did. But when her kin were robbed of their rights, there was none. All she got was a couple dozen dead corpses and information to work against Loghain. The slavers wouldn’t have been there if not for him. He was still free, but those elves would never be. Not anymore.

Anora steps in to object. Riordan offers an alternative. She does not falter.

"Kinslayers, blood mages, traitors, rebels, carta thugs, common bandits; anyone with the skill and the mettle to take up the sword against the darkspawn is welcome among us."

Alistair throws in his piece, however little it contributes. Anora uses his words against him. He starts to reconsider his former opinion of her, and his partner’s words regarding the queen the other night echo in his mind. He starts to wonder how capable she is if her father is _her_ general and she is _his_ queen, and yet she runs scared from him, and listens to everything he says.

He watches as his fellow Warden’s shoulders tense up, and suddenly, her eyes are downcast. Something happened, and it takes him a split second to piece it together: her story, Duncan coming in to conscript and save her for a crime she committed, and Riordan’s words; they are not judges – anyone who can fight is welcome among them.

Even murderous elves and traitorous generals.

She glances at him, her certainty having wavered, clearly deeming the act of deciding such a man’s fate beyond her – she’s no better than he, and Riordan has a point: they need more in their ranks. She accepted the honor of becoming a Grey Warden recruit to avoid being executed.

He leers at her, throws a quick glance in Anora’s direction then regards himself with a small shrug of his shoulders. She may think she’s no better than Loghain, but he is somehow more fit to rule than Anora? Right.

Her response, or rather the pitiful look in her eyes still disagrees. He wishes he could just pull her into another room at wax out a list of reasons why she is better than Loghain. Loghain would have killed Vaughan if it were Anora – anyone would. They only difference is that he would’ve gotten away with it without Duncan’s timely intervention. There wouldn’t have been a purge through Denerim. The teryn likely would not have gone out of his way to save Connor, wouldn’t have stormed the Circle Tower to avoid the Right of Annulment and save every soul possible, and probably would’ve let the Dalish and werewolves kill each other to solve that problem.

“You _are_ better,” he murmurs, just above a ghost of a whisper for her ears alone. “Don’t doubt that.”

She exhales. He shoots her a look – even, firm, and filled with complete certainty – she has every right to decide his fate, given what he’s done to her and her kind – both the elves and the Wardens. He’s ruined both homes and families. She clears her throat and he knows that she knows that he’s right. She retakes her stance.

“No.”

Anora objects some more, to no avail. Loghain lets out a small breath, as he knows this is it. Alistair feels a knot in his stomach; despite his certainty moments before and that he’s wanted this since Ostagar, having the man willingly submit still made it difficult to bear. He wonders if it’ll ever get any easier, and the thought itself frightens him.

Loghain’s blood hits Anora, and the nobles gasp. The elf is quiet, and the air is cold and still around her.

Eamon steps in to put Alistair on the throne, and Alistair stumbles when the words reach his ears. Anora pipes in and takes advantage of it, but in the end, his fellow Warden makes him king.

His first order of business locks the former queen away. His following speech is clumsy, but his Warden pushes him to get to the point – the Blight is the only thing that matters now.

Well, there’s _one_ more issue he realizes the two of them need to deal with, come to think of it.


	18. Confession

“... being king, that raises some questions about us. About you and me.”

She is unaffected, and he’s not sure it’s that she doesn’t care or doesn’t know, “What sort of questions?”

He brings up the matter of them being Grey Wardens, and their time limit – neither of them are going to live to grow old if they weren’t killed first.

“We don’t have to grow old together, do we?” she jokes, which doesn’t make it any easier.

He’s only ever known of Wardens who had children before joining. She’s in no way ignorant, but he tells her anyway that he’ll need to find a wife who can have his child and live long enough to raise it.

“I love you. More than I ever thought possible, but...”

She sighs with a smile, dry and worn on her lips as she nods lightly.

“I think I understand.”

Oh, Maker. She could’ve at least put up a fight to make it harder, or easier.

“I’m sorry.”

Much to his surprise, she grins, beaming with pride he knows is for him, “You’ll be a good king.”

“But I’d gladly trade all those things for what I really want.”

She inhales sharply and averts her gaze. Well, at least he knows this hurts her too, not that it makes any of it better. He swallows. Business first, feelings later.

“Arl Eamon has left for Redcliffe. He says the army has gathered there and is almost ready to march.”


	19. Pillow Talk

He takes first watch at camp when everyone else retires for the night, and finds himself glancing at her tent periodically. He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help himself; not long ago he’d be in there with her, arms wrapped around her waist, their legs tangled together as they both dreamt of darkspawn and other unpleasant things, maybe kissing her ear and making her giggle, talking about stupid things into the night, her kissing his neck and making him shiver, or making her bite her lip to so hard to avoid moaning with pleasure, his lips trailing down her neck, past her breasts, lower and lower...

Someone clears their throat from behind him and he jumps. _Her_.

“I want to talk. About us,” she says, words spaced apart carefully. He wavers a bit, figured it was really over, all said and done, but she remains. “Are you going to be all right?”

He has to admit, she’s seemingly handling it a lot better than he.

“Not really, no. But that doesn’t change the facts, does it? I love you. I’ll always love you. But there are things that are more important than what I want. I wish it were otherwise.”

He searches her eyes for an answer. He wants her to protest – say anything to convince him to take it all back. Be the one at the Landsmeet to convince everyone that the Wardens are right, or in this case right _together_ , and they can make it work, himself included. She’s so good at persuading people, and yes it would be unfair to her and his future wife, but she just needs to do it one more time. He would do whatever she wants; all she has to do is say it.

“I hope we’re still friends, is all.”

He swallows, praying that the hopefulness that just died within him wasn’t so obvious.

“Absolutely. Friends until the end.”

She nods, granted a little hesitantly but seemingly pleased with his answer and smiles up at him, broken and sad, but beaming with pride. _You’ll be a good king_ , she said. Was she testing him some more?

“Well, goodnight,” she offers with a light shrug, words still slow and careful, maybe uncertain. He nods, and she’s off, not looking back as he watches her go.

_The right choice is never the easy one._

No, it certainly isn’t.


	20. The Eve of Battle

When Riordan informs them of the cost to kill the Archdemon, she volunteers immediately. The older Warden’s heart is warmed by the bravery, but Alistair’s is not.

She’s crazy, or she must think she has something to prove or she–

–thinks she owes a lot of people. Of course.

He wants to pull her aside, talk about this or something, but Morrigan gives him an icy look as she passes through the hall. He retreats to his room and slowly starts to remove his armor. Sleep is important every now and then.

A gentle knock interrupts him several minutes later, and she quietly steps in, something pressing on her mind.

“I see you can’t sleep either.” He brings up Morrigan, and she asks him if he’s all right. He confesses the reality of being king finally hitting him, all those eyes and souls looking to him to guide them, and he can barely figure out which piece of armor to take off first before bed. But, she’s avoiding something. He presses her.

“I love you. You know that, right?”

“I... I had wondered if that was still so, after...”

Goodness, to hear it one more time hurt. But, business first, he reminds himself. _Why did you come?_

She sighs, runs a hand through her hair in frustrated thought before settling, and tells him: he needs to sleep with Morrigan to produce a magical baby in some ritual to prevent all Wardens from dying should they be the one to slay the Archdemon.

He laughs, thinks she’s joking, but when she doesn’t join in his eyes widen with horror. Sex with Morrigan _and_ a magical demon god baby or die slaying the Archdemon? _Well now_.

He asks her if she wants him to do this – on the off chance Riordan can’t and it’s between the two of them to get the job done, he knows she won’t let him die; he’s king, he’s someone important now and needed,  she doesn’t trust Anora (and quite frankly, neither does he), and he has duties. He can – and she firmly believes he will – make things better, and in the back of his mind he knows he refuses to let her and every other soul out there down, his reluctance to rule be damned.

On the other hand, he refuses to see her throw herself away, no matter her reasons.

He groans, “Where is she? Let’s go get this over with before I change my mind.”


	21. Fight

The charge forward is one of the shortest, longest, easiest and difficult things he’s ever done in his life. He’s quite certain that makes no sense, but in a way, it does.

Leliana had said it was funny that all their fates would be decided within the next few hours. She was right. Prior to, the battle he pictured was long and daunting, but standing at the gates made the timeframe feel so incredibly small – they had to hurry, but they could pace themselves. It didn't make sense, but standing there time was irrelevant and crucial.

In the heat of battle, all the darkspawn seem to fall after a single hit. He’s glad their side doesn’t. The generals are their own issue, and she is forced to call in reinforcements as they storm through Denerim and make their way to the fort.

He sees her fall on one knee, and immediately rushes to her side out of habit.

 _Just watch my back in there_.

Two more waves and they’re left with an emissary. Its attention is occupied by the Redcliffe soldiers that followed them in, and she, seemingly fed up with having dallied in front of the fort’s gate longer than she wanted, throws her dagger into its skull. The strike is clean, and its spells cease on impact. She storms toward it, grabs her dagger by the hilt and like so many others, slices its head off with her sword, picking the skull off her blade once the body hits the ground.

He jogs up next to her, and Wynne casts a spell to rejuvenate the lot of them as the soldiers set up a defensive position.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

She grumbles, “I am very ready to be done with this, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t know why, but he laughs, exhausted but still quite loud, so much so that the soldiers spare them a glance and puzzled looks. She snickers a bit herself before their group of four proceeds forward.

Almost done.


	22. Post Coronation

She becomes the bann of the Alienage, and stays with the Wardens. He’s glad one of them does, but finds himself oddly at a loss to her decisions. He knows her, and he knows she has a serious case of wanderlust. Despite that, she made her choice, and will likely stick by it, personal desire to travel everywhere be damned. She’ll be both in the city and out with both duties. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t want her to become the bann – she is capable, and he’d still see her.

A twinge of guilt runs through him at the thought. He shouldn’t, they ended it, well _he_ did, and they’re friends now.

But when he watches her make her rounds to their companions, laughing and joking with Zevran, Leliana and Oghren, beaming up at Sten and Wynne with affection, the still and cold air of the throne behind him makes him yearn a bit more. He can’t help it. He almost wants to hate her for giving him to it, but can’t bring himself to do so. Not entirely.

He thinks she’ll leave without saying a word to him, but she jogs back up to her spot next to him and smiles that same exhausted, wickedly charming little smile he knows is just for him.

They stand in silence a bit, watching as everyone around them proceeds to grin and laugh and enjoy life just as easily as they did before the Blight. He feels a stirring inside him he can’t quite place, but he’s certain she can feel it too. Darkspawn, and he wants nothing more than to throw her over his shoulder and run out of the room to go off and adventure. Something feels different this time, but he can’t just run off and investigate. She’ll handle it, but he hates so much that she has to do it alone.

Finally he speaks up, brings up the rest of the Grey Wardens from Orlais and the sex ritual.

“What should I tell them?”

“Tell them the truth,” she shrugs.

He snorts, “That a maleficar saved you and then ran off to have my demon baby? That has a certain ring to it, right?”

She stifles a laugh. He changes the subject to Morrigan. She says she’ll find her. He’s not sure he wants her to, but knowing what the ritual produced, she probably should. And she’ll probably keep him in the loop.

He can feel the conversation coming to a close. The public awaits their hero and Eamon is giving him a look. He takes a deep breath, “... if I don’t get the chance some other time... thanks. For everything.”

She’s taken aback for a split second, entirely still at his words but recovers quickly, almost too fast for him to notice. She tilts her head ever so slightly and puts on a little grin, meant to be reassuring, but he caught her pause, and sees right through it.

“This is hardly goodbye.” And he knows that technically, she’s right. She’s bann of the Alienage, she’ll be back, but he knows her, and he knows she’ll be getting into trouble and butting heads with the nobles, making plenty of noise to keep them on their toes. Still, he can see it in her eyes – she knows he’s right. He can feel it too, this final conversation feels like it’s it; the end.

“I know, but I’m king now... and that means things will change. I guess we’ll see.”

“...yeah.”

“I’ll let you get to your adoring public,” he smiles. She nods, and he knows that for his sake, bounces off in a happy skip to the doors at the other end of the room. She’s not okay, nor is he, but between the two of them someone needs to pretend to be, and he starts to think that maybe it’s his turn to put on the brave face.


	23. What Happens in the Arling

Anders happens.

She’s an even bigger mess than she thought she was to begin with.

He’s more Alistair than she’d like, with enough Zevran to keep her on her toes and _seemingly_ uninterested enough that she doesn’t have to tie herself to a post in the darkest depths of the Deep Roads to resist him.

She hates herself a little more every time she’s willing to admit that she’s attracted to him, but then another part of her reminds her that she is in fact single, and that moving on would be wise lest she actually enjoys pining for the king of Ferelden, someone whom she will never have a chance with again. But then she rationalizes that she superimposes similarities between him and Alistair, and that’s the only reason she finds him attractive to begin with. Or maybe it’s just his nose, that earring, hair and that silky voice that _purs_ the most inappropriate things behind her as she leads, far enough that she is not the intended recipient, but close enough that she can hear him in her ear, and feel that smirk shift the air as he watches her shiver at his every word.

Oh, she really hates herself.

As she makes her way to the larder there’s a candle that lights up the doorway to the kitchen, and through the process of elimination – Oghren prefers alcohol and Nathaniel likes to try and be discreet and sneak food into his room – there’s only one other person up at this hour. Knowing this she shouldn’t go in, but the alternative is spending the night alone in her room, regretting not trying to convince the king to carry on with her despite how morally wrong it is.

When she steps into the space and clears her throat, his blond head whips around, and just like the first time they met, “Er... I didn’t do it.”

A laugh escapes her lips, one of the few she doesn’t have to force out. He grins at her, tosses her an apple and her lips curve into an easy smile, and for a while, her mind slows down. Of course it speeds up again once she takes in a breath of air, her mind and body clearly registering that she’s had enough rest and it was time to plan everything ahead of time again, lest she fall behind and lose something or someone in the process.

And so she thinks – thinks of what her family is doing right now, automatically. Thinks about Shianni and if any shems have been giving her extra trouble, given who she herself is now. She thinks about Soris and his human wife, who is expecting, so she hears. Her father, and what sort of advice he might offer her if she asked. Then she thinks about her duties, and why she decided it would be wise to become bann in addition to staying with the Wardens, now especially since she is the acting arlessa and Warden-Commander. The Wardens weren’t exactly situated in Denerim anymore as she understands it – she’ll need to look into fixing that later – and she has a responsibility to two groups of people – two sets of charges, two collections of lives. But she has some help. There’s that, at least. Still, it would be better if she were back home, not that leaving for the Deep Roads every few days would help much.

However, politics and human affairs aren’t as pressing as matters of the Wardens at the moment. She distinctly remembers nodding off while the man next to Varel – goodness she can’t even remember his name – gave her a list of things to do, but none of it written down. She knows she has to resolve Keep defenses, merchant caravan attacks, do something about the Keep basement and the darkspawn below, find materials for armor for her soldiers, the fact that she has soldiers under her care and thus attend to any injuries from the initial attack, and... something about hunters who encountered something of interest she’ll probably have to ask about again? Something like that. Then she has to find that Warden, what’s-his-name, who’s somewhere in Amaranthine, and maybe contact Zevran about the Crows. She sighs, knowing only the last of the list is optional.

The soreness in her back returns, and she’s so exhausted she almost asks Alistair to help her with it. The tiredness in her voice cuts the words short, instead they ungracefully tumble out in an incoherent slur under her breath, and she remembers that she is not somewhere with the king, or rather the ex-templar she used to share stolen glances, moments, kisses, a tent and responsibilities with. For a moment, she finds herself cursing her decision – another lifetime ago she would’ve done everything with him by her side instead of moping on an uncomfortable wooden bench in the larder in the middle of the night. No, instead she’d be curled up next to him in bed, the safety of countless resting in two sets of hands.

But he’s king now, and she’s several things – Warden-Commander, acting arlessa, a bann, a tired elf and a heartbroken young person moping in a dimly lit room. She finds herself wondering how Rendon Howe did it – all those titles for just one person. She wonders if he ever sat and pouted or complained, but she shouldn’t waste time entertaining any irrelevant thoughts about a dead man. Or a living one who haunts her with fantasies of a happily ever after, complete with a sunset, _and yet_.

It’s too much. She’s more exhausted than she’s ever been, and she has this unusual need to cry. She wants to just not do any of her work. At least for a week, because that sounds slightly reasonable. She wants to stay in bed and sleep and cry, or sneak into the larder and eat a lot of food and cry. Or go on another adventure with her mabari. And possibly cry. She really misses her mabari.

She doesn’t even know why she needs to cry. Perhaps it’s a delayed reaction to sentencing Nelaros and countless other elves to death for her reckless behaviour. Maybe it’s for all the people she tried to save but couldn’t because she didn’t move fast enough. Maybe Bhelen wasn’t the right choice. Maybe she misses Alistair even more than she readily admits because he reluctantly ended things between them and she didn’t put up a fight when she wanted to. Maybe she shouldn’t have made him king at all. Maybe with the Blight over and some time to breathe, her feelings and conscience have finally caught up to her.

But she can’t. Something in her mind tells her to suck it up because she doesn’t have time for that. So she does – she takes a deep breath.

Anders peers at her curiously, honey eyes bright with fascination, and she remembers that she’s been turning the same apple over in her hand for quite some time now while he’s probably finished off the rest of the larder. So much for a midnight snack.

“Something on your mind?” he asks carefully.

“If I told you we’d be here until next week,” she laughs dryly. “How are you holding up?”

He rolls his eyes, but grins all the same. She’s been asking all of her Wardens this frequently – how are they doing, how are they holding up, what dreams do they have about darkspawn, is there anything she can do for them... once every night like her last set of companions. Becoming a Warden wasn’t very easy for her, and all of her well equipped mentors had perished before she truly had a chance to learn under them. She didn’t want that to be the same case for her charges – she didn't want them to break down in the privacy of their rooms or tents, especially if they became a Warden to avoid a lifetime of hardship, not that being a Warden was a simple task. Perhaps that was why she was fond of the blond apostate.

“The same,” he responds, and watches her intently, “How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” she lies, and the look on his face tells her he believes otherwise. She’s either utterly transparent – which is embarrassing as a rogue – or she’s been spending too much time with him and he can see right through her. She’s not sure which makes her more uncomfortable.

“Really? Because that tired look on your face,” he begins, and stretches his arm across the table to take her small elven face into his human hand, turning it side to side as if for inspection, “is rather exhausted to me. Shouldn’t you be sleeping right now and waking up early to do arlessa things? Whatever those are.”

She snorts, but doesn’t resist the grin on her lips. He smiles triumphantly, brushing her cheek with his thumb, and she can see him waiting for her reaction because he’d been very... open with everything he’s said while they travelled – robes, quick trysts in the corner, so on, so forth. A naked Anders creeps into her imagination, especially with the way he said it to Nathaniel earlier today and she can feel her cheeks flush. She’s certain he can feel the heat from her cheeks in his hand, which makes her blush all the more. For someone who had been seemingly uninterested before, he certainly was now.

“I should go,” she says as she gets up from her seat, the words tumbling out her mouth with much less certainty than she needed them to have. He raises a brow, and his lips twitch into that ridiculously suggestive smirk he sends her when he catches her staring, which is less frequent now. This smirk is not too different from his Confident Healing Smirk, which involves his hands moving about, tending to minor wounds while he maintains perfect eye contact which she inevitably breaks, and his smugness increases before he turns his attention to the wounds, periodically glancing at her, lips still twisted up with pure boyish charm. The fact that she has names for the way his lips twitch tells her to excuse herself immediately.

“Would you like me to come with you?” he asks _oh-so_ innocently, “You seem a bit flustered. Are you sick? I could take a look at you if you’d like.”

She freezes in the threshold, back facing him. If she had to categorize his offer, it certainly would have a touch of scandal to it, the commander sleeping with one of her subordinates, but on the other hand... it would be the opportune time to move on – a quick tryst in the corner with someone overwhelmingly charming, witty, clever, and within reach. Nothing remotely serious – some innocent flirting with someone new to steal back what parts of her she left with Alistair - happiness, laughing, smiling...

This could solve or fight off one of her problems, one of her minor problems but a problem that affects her work ethic. Thinking now, she never made any real efforts to move on – all she ever did was tell herself to do so, or tell herself to put it aside because she always had another three or four things that needed her attention more than her feelings. Right now, in the middle of the night, such things waited for her in the morning.

She hears Anders getting up from his seat, the shuffling of his robes indicating that he’s making his way to her. For the first time in a while, she bites her lip. She doesn't know what to do, but she plays along; perhaps she can talk her way somewhere other than where he’s taking it, “Have you accompany me all the way back to my study and inspect my health? A bit too generous. And I have so much work to do.”

“But you’re so small and flustered,” he coos, “Wouldn’t want our fearless leader falling in battle from a fever or anything, now would we? Or what if you fall while reviewing reports? What would we do then?”

Safer, _much_ safer, she notes, and so she laughs, nice and easy, and she marvels at how he can do that, “I’m not that small, nor am I as helpless as you seem to be implying. I have excellent endurance. I’m sure I’ll manage.”

“Do you, now?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, I don’t quite believe you,” he challenges, “Shall we put it to the test?”

Oh. Well, she walked right into that.

 _Zevran does it all the time_ , part of her says. She could take a lesson from him. Why didn’t she? He was certainly open to inviting her to bed with another while they traveled together. He probably thought she could use it, and in truth, she starts to think she does. And here in front of her is a beautiful young man, vibrant, lively, charming and clever, waiting at her response. She should. She most definitely should say yes.

_Say it, just say it. Say yes._

But somehow, she can’t. Something – and she thinks that something is cruel, unreasonable and bossy – tells her it is wrong of her. This something tells her this is not how she should be behaving because somehow, it isn’t right. This something, so horrifically powerful and tragically pathetic inside her, tells her that he is not Alistair, and therefore she should not.

So instead of taking up this handsome young man on his offer, she squeezes her eyes shut, exhales sharply, opens her eyes again and smiles softly, “I’m fine, but thank you.”

“You still love him, don’t you?” Anders asks after a brief pause, still so very close, his breath on her skin sending shivers down her spine, a hint of amused accusation dancing with his tone. He chuckles when she raises a brow, “For a rogue you were terribly obvious when he came. Looks like he took a bit of you when he left.”

She laughs, genuinely amused by his rogue jab, but the sound starts to dry and she can feel the lump forming in her throat. To answer his question, “Unfortunately, yes.”

"Hurts?"

"I don’t know why it didn’t as much before," she admits, her gaze dropping to the ground, "Maybe it only stung because I had a Blight to deal with."

He places a hand on her shoulder, thumb brushing her skin once more. She sighs, knowing that she shouldn’t be so worked up about something that should be trivial in the face of what work she has to get to and mysteries to solve when the sun rises. He offers her a smile, friendly and simple, and she returns it. Immediately after he bends down to her ear, “I’ll still be here, if you’d like.”

She shivers, that velvet voice tickling her skin and sending a chill up and down her body. Despite her response not a breath before, his offer still stands – he will be there, should she desire or need him, even if to use him. She's not sure how to process it. Her mind utterly fails as he brushes a lock of hair behind her ear, knuckles grazing her cheek before walking off ahead of her, his delicious laugh echoing through the hall promptly after her pathetic attempt at fighting back one very audible exhale of breath.

She bites back the temptation of running after him and ravishing him in the darkest corner - to feel the warmth and presence of another, to feel pleasure, to have some fun for the first time since her disastrous wedding where everything else went horribly wrong, but most notably to not be alone and cold with her thoughts. Instead she waits for the sound of his footsteps to disappear up the stairwell, and once she is entirely sure he is gone, she bites back one shuddering sob, and tears her own hole in the larder to eat and maybe cry.

At the very least she can take comfort in the fact that she gets one thing she actually wants and needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *recently edited for the lulz*
> 
> A few things:
> 
> 1) Anders  
> 2) Greg Ellis' Anders voice is like strawberries dipped in chocolate. With the mage feeding them to you.  
> 3) From here on out, I have less game dialogue & definite plot to follow so it'll actually be a bit more fanfiction than writing between the lines. *throws confetti for bullshit writing privileges*  
> 4) Thank you for reading, and if you've been around since I posted it, thank you for sticking around???? Idk why you did, but there it is.  
> 5) _ANDERS_


	24. Written Correspondence

He appreciates that she writes him, especially since she opens each letter by asking how he fares as king, seeing as how she put him there in the first place.

He responds candidly. Well, not _too_ candidly, given that if he did, half his emotions of longing and pining would spill out. And that would only be half.

No, when he writes back, it is the fifth draft, at least. On a good day. All the letters ending with “I miss you” or “I love you,” all slips on his part as the two of them have never exchanged letters or been apart for very long before and he has this habit of needing to say how he feels, are crumpled and thrown into the fire, lest Eamon find them and raise one very judgemental brow. Or some of the servants find them and word of the two of them carrying on or something of the sort spreads. He honestly would not mind, in fact he considered casually leaving an open letter somewhere for someone to find and spread word as it would eventually cause her to return, and the two of them would have to talk about it, and he could ask to take it back.

Unfortunately, she’s busy.

Her letters come at the most unusual times and from the strangest of places. He wonders when she even acquired _connections_ or _people,_ but several times, such as once while he was sleeping, a crow or two appeared on his desk with letters several weeks or mere days old. Those were from Antiva. Zevran sent his regards too.

Another time an elven maid collapsed before him, and somehow she knew (hundreds of miles away) that he would rush to her side to aid her, and the maid slipped a letter into his pocket without his knowing. _Greetings from Par Vollen_. _Sten misses Fereldan cookies, and so do I_.

Unlike him, whose letters left and came at a steady pace from a courier to her last known location up until she was called back to Ferelden because she managed to smuggle herself out of the land to see Sten off personally, all of her letters followed the same format: Dear Alistair, personal questions regarding how he fares as king, inquiries about whether he is well, inquiries on whether any of the banns or nobles have made any comments (read: threats) at the Alienage and its people, questions about Shianni and if she is safe every few letters because rumor has it nobleman so-and-so did something or said something and if it rings true the Hero of Ferelden will come back and deal with the matter personally (which no one wants), send her regards to some person he does not quite know but she does and they’re in the castle so she assumes he knows them, then most importantly: to business.

Her spontaneous letters contained no issues of concern, however a single one sent from Amaranthine did. After his encounter with her there he left to his business and returned to Denerim, the letter awaiting him on his desk. As well as a squirrel running around his room.

_Alistair,_

_Double your guard. Make sure the city is protected, and under no circumstance are you to set foot near a Deep Road. The darkspawn are more organized this time around and we don’t know why. Yet. My new Wardens and I will take care of it. I will write you when I can with whatever I find. But please, you are the only other Warden in Ferelden, so take care of yourself and be safe._

_Yours truly,  
-T_

He rereads, just to be certain. Her letter provides no new information from his visit, but the urgency is evident. Despite that urgency, he also can’t help but chuckle at her barking orders at him again. He has his duties as king, but she knows him well enough to go ahead and tell him to not follow his instincts and seek her out to resolve the issue side by side, just like old times. Eamon would also go mad. He has a hard enough time sneaking out to a local tavern as it is.

Being a rather short letter, his eyes are drawn to her closing concerns for his safety. And finally:

_Yours truly._

He can’t help but smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slow update. I also revised the last two chapters, to older readers. Some fairly significant changes in the last, but the result is still the same. Thanks for reading <3


	25. Editor

She should not be panicking over something so trivial while Vigil’s Keep is damaged, darkspawn lurk in the basement and several mysteries that require her undivided attention loom. Still...

“Did you send the letter on my desk?” she asks, eyes wide in something close to absolute terror. Seneschal Varel nods, though rather hesitantly. “That was my fourth draft! I needed to revise it!”

“Commander, if you don’t mind me asking: why?”

“Misleading information, it’s too vague, just... stuff like that,” she waves her hand, taking a deep breath to maintain composure because Nathaniel is looking at her like she hasn’t slept in days and it’s starting to show. In truth, she actually hasn’t slept in days, and she thinks the fourth draft is too affectionate, not that she didn’t harbour affections for the recipient of the letter, but she tells herself that it needs to stop. How can he possibly rule a kingdom and find a future queen and produce heirs with her snippy little letters poking at him with little bits of affection from a relationship that has come to a close?

And really, there wasn’t enough information in it for her to send. She’d only recently gone out to fetch a man’s daughter instead of leaving him to pay ransom, as well as clear out some darkspawn on the farmland. If she continued to send short letters with vague reports overwhelmed by personal ramblings it would look as though she... it would just be inappropriate, even if they are friends. What she should be writing about is the serious matters at hand, and he really does need to know all the facts to be prepared. She sighs, “I’ll just... make sure not to slip anything into an envelope until I’m certain.”

When she dismisses everyone for the evening, Nathaniel comes to her side, “Would you like me to proof read your reports, Commander? You look... tired.”

She ponders for a moment, and doesn’t bother to resist her oncoming yawn. He’s right, “That’s a good idea. Thank you, Nathaniel.”


	26. Passion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to anyone looking forward to reading this and hit that nasty set of months in which I did not update. All ideas abandoned me -_-;;

This letter he receives is formal, distant, cold, and written by someone else.

He almost starts to panic, seeing as how that isn’t her writing but the information keeps coming. Her name is signed in full, nice and formal and utterly impersonal, her title as Warden-Commander present as well. He runs a very frustrated hand through his hair and exhales. Why is this change so abrupt? When did she decide to not write her own letters? Did he write something wrong? How could he write something wrong? He edited everything he wrote to her.

But he knows better, so he sifts. He goes back to the pile of letters from her, one by one and rereads.

Sometime after _‘yours truly’_ she starts to just say _‘yours.’_ Fair enough. Eventually she simply ends it at _‘take care.’_ Also fair.

He moves his attention to the format of her letter. Most simply address him by name, very personal, very _her_. Same business of pleasantries before personal issues as bann, then actual Warden business before she closes. He notices a slow decline in pleasantries – no more things like _‘I hope you are well,’_ or _‘I trust you’re still sneaking out to taverns under Eamon’s nose,’_ or even _‘I hate the Deep Roads. I almost envy you.’_

All the colours, all the words that made her letters _hers_ , disappeared slowly.

The writing, of course, changed, though someone initially made an attempt to make it look as though it were her writing. She always wrote quickly, letters were small, sharp, typically in print for legibility but occasionally they would slur together. The further back he went, the stronger the attempt to mirror her style was. Recent letters gave up altogether.

The questions, then, were who and why?

A wealth of information is provided, however. Broodmothers – he shudders and hopes for her safety. An architect, an elf, her sister, a lot of things neatly contained into one long report.

Not her hurdles of letters with bits of information at the end. One long report.

He lets out a frustrated sigh, near slams himself into his seat behind his desk and starts to write something ridiculously unprofessional, his hand cramping up in a matter of minutes. There’s little puddles of ink across the page, scribbles of words, mistakes all about but he doesn’t care a single damn bit.

Where did she go?


	27. Congratulations

Amaranthine and Vigil’s Keep are attacked by darkspawn. He hears from her _after_ the entire incident, and it’s not even her but the mystery writer keeping him updated for her and signing her name. When he abandons all his work at his desk, Eamon shouting after him as he rides off on his horse straight for the Keep, she isn’t even present when he arrives.

“Probably sweeping the Architect’s base again. I apologize, your Majesty,” a soldier informs him. Begrudgingly, he understands. She was always thorough; it’s what made her an effective leader. “I don’t think she’ll be more than a few days, if you’d like to stay. We’re still conducting repairs, however.”

He stays. He has couriers and messengers moving back and forth for him to continue his work, and makes up some weak excuse about still technically being a Warden and therefore should be present for any Grey Warden concerns to keep Eamon at bay because on the off chance all Wardens die, he will take up arms and return to his duty.

He pictures his uncle in his mind, likely red in face, perhaps more than usual as he said something was important. Alistair didn’t catch it, as he was too busy riding out the Denerim gates to hear. Something about someone coming, something, something, his horse, people jumping out of the way and screaming, himself shouting that he has official Grey Warden business to attend to loud enough for anyone to hear so he has witnesses. He’ll probably hear about it when he gets back. And some lengthy lecture about abandoning his duties as king.

A few days pass, and she still doesn’t return. Alistair is certain Eamon’s caught wind of her missing presence, and therefore sees through his excuse – no point in being with the other Grey Wardens if the Warden-Commander is not present to bark orders or share secrets.

Five days after the first few, however, he can hear the guards shouting about at her return. Alistair abandons his seat and letters, ignoring the fact that one has caught on his boot and that he’s spilt ink all over his hands and rushes outside. He spots two horses, and two women upon them. The sun blinds him, but he can make out her ears as she gets off her horse.

“Alistair?” she’s surprised. He can’t tell if it’s pleasantly or horrifically, but she is. With her lack of communication, he isn’t sure where they stand, exactly, but he’s hoping it’s somewhere close to where they left off. He has a lot to say.

“Your Majesty,” greets the other woman, and bows. Highborn, noble, and beautiful with fiery red hair.

“Uh, hello,” he responds absently, turning his attention to his fellow Warden. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she clears her throat, turning the woman next to her, “Allow me to introduce Lady Elissa Cousland. We met on our way here.”

“When your uncle told me you’d run off I volunteered to come bring you back to Denerim myself,” Elissa smiles, “That is, of course, if you Grey Wardens have concluded... whatever it is you do after Blights.”

“We are a secretive bunch,” he forces a laugh before taking Tabris by the arm and leading her away, “Excuse us for a moment.”

“Did you not receive Eamon’s letters?” she asks when they’re both out of earshot.

“I actually wanted to speak to you about yours, or lack of, and, well... us,” he murmurs, “Wait, what about Eamon’s?”

“Elissa... she’s, well,” she stumbles, the topic obviously uncomfortable, and she too well aware that she should not be the one telling him, “You’re practically betrothed. I think.”

“What?”

The world suddenly feels wrong, even with her standing next to him. He can feel her taking his hands and cleaning off the ink, and yanking the letter from the end of his boot, but there’s something about the news that takes him from the sensation – her touch, her voice, and her presence don’t reach him, even though he’s longed for them for quite some time. The only thing that does is the brave face she puts on for the both of them. If she cracks, he’ll follow, and they can’t do that anymore. Not here, not in front of everyone.

She hands him the letter, folded back as best she can after being trampled by him. He skims it, believes it to be some nonsense he can focus on to catch his bearings, but ironically it’s the one to inform him of the Cousland woman – fierce, independent, beautiful, brave, and charming. Perfect on paper, and in real life, evidently. And also on her way to bring him back to the castle.

Alistair turns to the woman next to him. She is surveying the land around them, the construction and soldiers as people move about, holding up a hand to tell who he thinks is the Howe son she mentioned to wait for her, focusing on the things she has to do, keeping herself busy as much as she can.  When he looks her in the eyes, he turns to the letter once as the two of them stand in silence. She averts her gaze three times before finally looking at him.

“It’s good to see you,” she finally says, and for a moment he wishes that this meeting was another exchange of letters, four or five drafts later, for he can hear her heart breaking in her voice. She would've left that out, and he as well.

“You, too.”

Nobility always did have a way of ruining things for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lack of updates. Gonna try and finish this puppy this summer. Or this century.


	28. Once More, with Feeling

Elissa is as fiery and feisty as Eamon had written, and then some. She is also ridiculously impossible to dislike, as Alistair finds something in her to grow fond of, which he dislikes a great deal. She’s really nice. And polite. And smart. Ugh.

“We need to talk,” he says at her door, in the dead of night because Elissa is infuriatingly charming, and Oghren knows about the two of them. He needs to speak to her alone. “About us.”

“Alistair,” Tabris is seated behind a desk, parchment and books, bones and tissues in jars and rusted weapons scattered about, “You... _we_ already dealt with that.”

“No,” he protests, “ _I_ ended things. On a bad note.”

“As I recall, it was rather civil. And I didn’t put up a fight.”

“But you would have, wouldn’t you?”

“That doesn’t really matter anymore.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“You’re doing your duty, as am I. That’s all that matters.”

“What duty?” he sighs, frustrated, “As far as we know, she is nothing to me. You are Warden-Commander, not the Queen of Antiva, or a married woman. Nothing’s stopping us.”

“At the moment,” she murmurs, “Suppose we carry on as we were, what then? You’re a king. You need an heir. I can’t give that to you. You’ll have to marry someone, someone who isn’t me, and if we stayed together despite that, you know that’s not fair. You would never do that to her, me, or yourself.”

“I hate it when you’re right.”

“It’s why you ended things in the first place, is it not?”

“Yes,” he admits, “Just... hearing it from you makes it sound extremely right. I hate that.”

She gets up from her seat, rounds the desk and into his arms, wrapping her own around him in a tight embrace. Alistair exhales, buries his face into her hair before giving her neck a light peck.

“I know. I do, too.”

“You smell like darkspawn.”

She laughs, shaking in his arms as he catches on, and starts to laugh as well.

“But you _are_ right,” she says quietly, taking a step back. She meets his gaze, and bites her lip, “As far as we know right now, she’s nothing to you. And you _are_ king.”

“So...?”

“You can, in theory, do whatever you want,” she continues, “or... whomever.”

The realization comes to him a bit slowly, what with the stress of the day, rush of emotions and hyper-longing for the one before him. His eyebrows rise slowly, and his lips curve into an, “ _Oh_.”

“Might make goodbyes a bit harder though,” she says, brushing her nose against his as he weaves his fingers through her hair, already getting ahead of themselves. “I’d be lying if I said I never think of you. I always do. I’ll always want you, and if you wan–“

“I haven’t wanted anything more than you the moment I gave you up,” he cuts in, “Please.”

She says nothing, just nods and smiles and kisses his cheek, her clever little fingers –oh, how he’s missed them– making quick work of his clothing, kingly buckles and furs falling to the ground next to them. Because she’s efficient. And quiet. Unlike him.

She presses her lips to his – tender, almost doubtful and ghostly, uncertain if this is the right course to go. She’s right, of course she’s right, this will make goodbye even harder than it already is and was, Alistair knows this, and if her conscience is kicking in while he’s half naked they must be wrong, but Maker, it’s her, and him, together again. Almost like tents under the stars, but with fancier boots and a guard rotation outside. Also with titles; Warden kings sleeping with Warden-Commanders, temporary arls and banns of Alienages.

“I love you, you know that right?”

And that, which makes everything else not matter in the least.

He wraps his arms around her waist, having actually forgotten how small she is compared to him in size, and pulls her forward, her lips crashing into his with a slight gasp. He kisses her hard with urgency, need, and a hunger that’s been on for months, this _is_ a goodbye so he needs to make this last – make it count to remember for however long he’s going to live, and so that she’ll never forget him, too.

He picks her up and tosses her on the bed, earning him a laugh of pure and innocent delight from her.

“I do. And I love you,” he murmurs, “I’ll always love you.”

She places a kiss on his chest, above his heart naturally, which he adores, not just because it tickles, but because she’s there. She marks it – it’s hers. He’s hers.

“And I’ll always be yours.”


	29. Mornings

Alistair wakes up tired, but rather content. He can feel her next to him, he can hear the metal clanking and shouting outside the window. The sun shines through a small space between the curtains, probably closer to mid day than morning. She grumbles slightly as he stretches, pulls his arm back into place around her as she snuggles closer to his side where she fits perfectly.

“Good morning.”

“Ugh, no...”

“Oh?” he chuckles, stifling a yawn. They did stay up rather late... catching up, “And why not?”

“I just want to stay here,” she murmurs, shifting slightly to place a kiss on his shoulder, “For... a few days.”

He chuckles, pulls her over until she’s resting on top of him, but refusing to meet his gaze.

“Last night was a bad idea.”

“It felt like a rather good one half way through the first bout, I think,” he teases, “Or the first minute, if I’m being honest.”

“Alistair!” she sends him a glare, biting back a smile before frowning, “I mean... well, you know what I mean.”

“I... don’t... actually,” he responds, taking her hand and kissing the pads of each finger between words, “Promise me you’ll write? And you, not that mystery writer who signs your name in full.”

“ _Nathaniel_ ,” she corrects, laughing just slightly. “Should we just... cut ties? If we can’t even get out of bed together, I don’t think we’ll have an easy time letting go while writing to each other.”

“I can’t do that.”

“But we probably should.”

“Why must you be the rational one?”

“Because you’re the funny, sweet, sensitive one who likes cheese,” she mumbles, “I’m also bann, whatever good that might do for the Alienage since I’m still the Warden-Commander. I’ll be around. Sometimes. How’re you supposed to move on if you see me and write me?”

“Simple solution, my dear lady: I don’t,” he responds, kissing her hand. She sighs, frustrated but grinning all the while. “I can’t do without you.”

“How could you possibly know that if you’ve never tried?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the past few months without me? Or have you already moved on?” he jests, “Is it Oghren? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

“I thought about moving on,” she confesses. It stings to hear, but he understands. He doesn’t want to hear it, but he says nothing, waiting for her to continue. “Didn’t last more than a few minutes. Seems I can’t do without you either.”

“Is that so?” he raises a brow as his other hand draws circles on her arm absently, “Truth be told I had a feeling Eamon would sick someone at me eventually. I hadn’t thought he’d be so quick about it, but I suppose it makes sense; find someone lovely and nearly perfect to take my mind off you, or mend the heartache.”

“Clever,” she agrees, “Elissa is...”

“Not something either of us wants to talk about at this very moment,” he cuts in. She moves over, off his chest and to his side once more, the two of them staring at each other, taking the sight of their lover in as much as possible. “Your desire has, and will always be my command. What would you have me do?”

He awaits her word – tell him goodbye and to leave her bed and he will, but he knows that she won’t. Before she can even contemplate her response, however, there’s a knock at the door.

“Warden-Commander?”

“I’ll just be a moment,” she calls out, cheeks flushing. Alistair resists the urge to snicker at her expense, instead opting to wrap his arms around her waist, pull her closer, kissing his way from her ear (which wiggles alongside the other) to her shoulder, prompting her to bite her lip. “Alistair...”

“You’ll write?” he murmurs, turning her on her back, lips on her chest, to each breast, then sucks on a nipple, earning something between a squeak and a moan. He adds puppy dog eyes, just in case. He truly cannot do without her. In any form.

“Y-yes...” she struggles to respond, a first, “You’ve become a wicked man, you know that?”

“Mhm,” he hums, “and also king. I’ve come to realize that no one can really tell a king what to do, right?”

“No, I suppose no one can. What are you getting at, your Majesty?”

“Stay with me,” he pleads, staring into her eyes intently. “Stay with me for as long as we are free. Write to me, visit me, or tell me where you go so I might follow, just... I can’t say goodbye. Not to you. Not ever.”

“You will have to, eventually,” she warns. “I’m an elf, Alistair.”

“That changes nothing.”

“For you, which I love you for, dearly. But your subjects, and likely your uncle and other advisors do not share your opinion. No matter what dragon was slain.”

“ _Commander_ ,” the voice on the other door calls out again, likely having wandered about the halls before returning, “your Majesty, please. You’re both needed.”

“Thank you, Nathaniel,” Tabris shouts to the door, mortified. Alistair feels the heat in his cheeks, and the two stumble out of bed, rushing to dress themselves, their conversation left unfinished.


	30. Words, words, words.

Elissa is... nice.

Alistair does his best to amuse her, and by extension, Eamon, who isn’t present as they ride back to Denerim together in an unbearably awkward silence, but oh, how he can feel his judgement in the air. And maybe his eyes.

Lady Cousland makes small talk with him – she’s rather good at it, and all he can do is nod and try and not bare his teeth in that awkward not-smile that’s an attempt at a smile. Tabris usually laughed at that. Her laughter started out as minor, stifled and more of a chuckle, but as they grew closer she’d topple over at his teeth smile, hugging her stomach and gasping for air.

Oh, how he misses her already.

He wonders if Elissa would do the same. He’s not very inclined to try, thanks very much, but his _duty_ , he reminds himself. His dear Warden trusted him with a task. He should see it through, though if last night and this morning was any indication...

“Pardon me, Majesty, but you look... you’re worried,” Elissa notes.

“I’m still a Grey Warden. Not doing my Warden-y duties pains me,” he turns his nose up jokingly-but-seriously, hoping it’ll mask the fact that he can hear and feel an unsettling, and leaving Tabris to it with new recruits (and Oghren, who is very good at hitting and killing darkspawn, but still) has him worried. He wonders how her new team is. He also wonders if she misses her old one, because he does, and if her new one works just as well.

She chuckles, his human noble companion. He tries for a half smile, tugs one end of his lips upward. Maker, he can see her face twist into confusion, and he’s hoping she’ll read it as stress. Warden-y stress. Because she’s not a Warden so his secrets are safe. For now.

“I’m certain the Warden-Commander and her team are more than capable of dealing with the matter,” she offers. “Though it was very brave of you to rush and offer your assistance.”

He hums, not bothering for a full answer this time. He probably looks thoughtful and pensive – that’s what he’s going for anyway. They ride together in silence a bit more before she continues with the small talk, Alistair occasionally offering a hum or two to three word response.

She is lovely – she’s charming, pretty, smart, and clever. She’s educated and a fighter, forward, and probably feisty.

But... she’s too tall. She’s not taller than him, but she’s tall... and her ears are small and round, and they probably don’t wiggle if he ever kissed her. She’s too amicable, and he doesn’t... well, her smiling easily or taking his responses, however unusual, in stride isn’t _bad_ but it’s not... ugh, Maker’s breath. _Words_.

It’s not... it’s not the same? He doesn’t earn her smiles. He eyes her discreetly (he hopes) and realizes he could never pick her up with the utmost ease and just spin her around. He doesn’t even know if she’d want to, or whether she’d find that ridiculously endearing. The more he looks at her the more he wonders if he could ever wrap himself around her, pull her into his chest and rest his chin on her shoulder. Would she protest? Would she try to wriggle free? Would she sigh in defeat, lean back and get comfortable because he has no intention of letting go as they sit by the fire and watch the camp, running over their next course of action together?

Would he fight dragons with her? Would they win? Would they have a hundred dogs because yes, she is Fereldan, but she can probably have children? Would she run her fingers through his hair and rest her hand at the nape of his neck when they make love? Would she kiss him to keep him quiet because he is anything but when she– _ahem_. Not going there.

But could he even make love to someone that isn’t his Warden? He’ll be required to perform his duties, but how can he if he can barely stand getting through a day without her?

 _Time_ , he can hear Eamon tell him. Time heals all wounds, resolves all problems, something, something, mhm, yes, very wise. Technically, Wardens die with time (and less time than others), and time hasn’t exactly done anything to foster relations between Orlais and Ferelden. It also hasn’t really stopped Blights, so reeeeeeally... not quite.

 _But in time!_ How is it he can hear Eamon in his head so clearly when darkspawn are running about? In time, he can learn to love Elissa, or Clarissa, or Clara, or Agnes, Margaret, and any other unlucky girls Eamon will try to trick him into marrying. Yes, _trick_. He’s picking up a few things here and there.

However long they ride for, Denerim comes into view, and out of curiosity he challenges Elissa to a race, which she readily accepts. He probably shouldn’t, it might give her the wrong idea (or give Eamon the right one... hm...), but he does, and he lets her win, taking the time to slowly make his way back to the castle.

 _Words_ , he muses. He’ll be sending his Warden lady friend some immediately, but first he needs to figure out which.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *rises from the grave*

**Author's Note:**

> I really don't know. I did a thing.


End file.
